


Poise and Rationality

by holymalfoys



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bottom Draco, Infidelity, M/M, Makeup Sex, Marriage, Top Harry, breaking up, drama queen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-08 00:18:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18884260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holymalfoys/pseuds/holymalfoys
Summary: Rational is not the right word to use to describe Draco Malfoy.





	Poise and Rationality

Rational is not the right word to use to describe Draco Malfoy.

He knows this. When anything slightly out of the norm occurs, he acts on the spot- he likes making big impacts by having the most dramatic reactions he can possibly muster up, and, really, he should have been an _actor_.

Like the time he was walking through Diagon Alley, linked arms with Harry and dramatically retelling the story of how he saved the day again by actually reading the paperwork before doing the fieldwork, when a child came rushing by and slammed into him, smearing ice cream all over his robes. It wouldn’t have been as bad if it was a normal flavour, but, because it was _mint chocolate chip_ , Draco was sent into a tizzy; he screamed at the top of his lungs, let go of Harry, and promptly Disapparated to the South of France for a week.

When he came back, no one batted an eyelid. Harry calmly gave him a soft kiss and handed him his lunch for the day, and everyone in the Auror Department pretended nothing happened (which Draco was a bit disappointed by, to be honest, because someone had to have noticed he was gone).

He strongly suspects the only reason why he hasn’t been fired yet is because of Harry, but he likes to think his dashingly good looks help his case. Really, no one is anywhere near his level of attractiveness, except maybe Harry.

So, yes. Draco is a bit of a diva, and everyone knows it. When he wakes up from his lie in on that March morning at 3pm, arse naked and deliciously sore, being irrational is at the back of his mind. He’s stretched out in his and Harry’s king sized bed, and he’s already kicked Harry out to go buy some lunch.

Oh, Draco loves Saturday mornings- afternoons. It’s the one day where he’s treated like the queen he is, and he doesn’t need to be dramatic to get the attention he thrives off. Saturday is just for him and Harry.

He smiles dreamily- his bed really is quite soft- and thinks about what they’re going to do for the day. Maybe they’ll go feed the ducks, or maybe they’ll go see Ginny play Quidditch (Draco and her bonded over their shared love of Kneazles and have been inseparable since that Christmas), or maybe they’ll go out for dinner in Blaise’s brand new restaurant. The world is their oyster.

First, though, he _really_ needs to take a piss. So he stumbles graciously out of bed, slips on Harry’s red and gold bathrobe and slippers and struts into the bathroom like he’s a model, like Pansy.

He whistles whilst doing his business, and thinks about life. If you had told 13 year old him he would end up here, in love with Harry Potter and being loved by him, he absolutely would have sneered at you and informed you his father would hear about it. If you told 17 year old Draco that, however, he might have reacted differently- he was already knees deep in love with the world’s Golden Boy, but never for one second would he have believed it would be been requited.

But here he is, 28 years old, and he’s the happiest he’s ever been. When Harry had represented him in court and helped him avoid of a sentence in Azkaban, Draco had enrolled in the Auror programme, where Harry was adamant about being his friend. Eventually things progressed, and here they are, 4 years later, with an apartment in London.

Draco yawns and cracks his neck, massaging it with his left hand while he finishes. He struts back out of the bathroom, and immediately goes to the writing desk in their room because he forgot to tell Pansy that he’s free for the week and that he’s planning on coming to visit her for tea on Monday.

He’s just about to sit down when he notices a letter on the desk. Furrowing his brow, he picks it up and starts reading.

The writing is quite messy, but not as bad as Harry’s usually is, and relatively short.

> “Baby,
> 
> I’ve been thinking about this for a while, and I really think we should move on to the next stage in our relationship. I love you, and I want you. Forever. Marry me?
> 
> -HJ.”

Draco’s blood runs cold.

_What_.

His mind is short cutting. He stops breathing.

What the fuck is this.

Who is Baby, and why does Harry want to marry them? And why on earth is Harry going by HJ? Oh my god, _does he want to marry Oliver Jones_? Is he already taking the surname Jones? No, he wouldn’t marry Oliver- he’s too old, and he has a wife,

What if he’s _pregnant_?

_No, he can’t be pregnant_ , Draco thinks. _That man has a phobia of bottoming and is hung as a horse. It’s impossible._

As he thinks more about it, Draco gets angrier and angrier.

He bets this baby person isn’t as attractive as he is. He bets baby is unemployed. He bets baby is terrible at cooking.

Draco is terrible at cooking, too. Maybe Harry has a thing for people who can’t cook.

He’s vibrating with rage. He cannot believe this. How dare Harry do this to him! How dare he stamp all over Draco’s fragile heart! How? Dare? He?!

The front door slams open.

“Honey, I’m home!” Harry sing-songs as he strolls up the hall, his arms full of bags. Draco stumbles out of their bedroom, positively fuming, still wearing the dressing gown and slippers. The note is clutched in his palm.

Harry sees him, and stops in his tracks. “Love? What’s wrong? Don’t say you were working again, you know weekends are for relaxing...”

Draco stands still, drama queen mode officially activated. His eyes narrow, and he lowly says:

“You.”

Harry laughs, a deep rumble in his chest. “Yes, me. What’s up, sunshine?”

“Why the _FUCK_ do you want to marry a child?!” And then Draco runs into the living room, grabs a fistful of Floo powder, and Floos straight to Pansy’s apartment in Spain.

~

Pansy wasn’t going to let him in, the daft bint. Honestly, Draco has no idea why she still has her Floo alarm still set against him; they’re best friends, for Christ’s sake.

Anyway, she lets him in, and, upon seeing his tear-streaked face, immediately hands him her full wine glass.

“Drink,” she instructs, her face scrunched up in something faintly resembling worry. Draco’s never seen her worried, so the expression is quite foreign.

He chugs the glass in one go, the holds it back out. It automatically refills, and he drinks that, too.

“Draco, baby, what happened?” Pansy softly murmurs, putting her arms around him. She’s not an affectionate person, so Draco knows she’s a bit freaked out.

“H-h-h…” he stutters, then bursts into tears again.

“Shhh,” she says, “I’ve got you. You’re ok.” She leads him over to the sofa, gently rubbing his back and cooing into his ear. Draco loves being babied over. He remembers he has the note still in his hand, and passes it to Pansy once they’re sitting down.

Pansy reads it, poker face on, and looks up once she finishes it. Quirking an eyebrow, she waits for Draco to explain.

“I f-f-found this on the d-desk,” Draco snivells. He sounds quite comical, really. “Oh, Pans, he’s found someone else and he wants to marry them!” And away he goes again, straight back into tears.

Pansy’s brow furrows. She looks like she wants so say something else, but, upon seeing Draco’s expression, grabs his hand and drags him straight to her bedroom. He’s spent a lot of his day in bed, he thinks, but he’s exhausted after his sobbing session.

He gracefully falls into her bed and burrows under the covers. He’s still sniffling, but sleep is calling his name. “Pans,” he says softly, “don’t contact Harry. I never want to hear his voice ever again.” Upon seeing her slow nod, he then drifts off into a dreamless sleep.

~

Draco spends the next two weeks with Pansy. Neither of them mention Harry, and Draco is desperate to move on from him. Clearly Harry never felt the same way about Draco as Draco felt about him, if he was sending messages to that baby person, so Draco attempts to find someone else.

It’s quite difficult.

He keeps comparing everyone he meets to Harry, and it’s far too difficult to attempt to flirt with a Spaniard when he only knows French and English.

The two weeks are spent in the sun, but then Draco has to return to work because now he actually needs that job.

And so, at 9am the following Monday, Draco says goodbye to Pansy. He’s looking as well as he can, wearing an old suit Pansy found in her attic, and feeling miserable as he Floos to the offices.

Except it’s only 8am in London, and he’s an hour early for work.

So he heads to his own office, only to remember he forgot his keys in his- Harry’s- apartment. There’s a twist in his gut as he realizes he has to wait for his partner, Barry Brankleton. Barry is old and crusty, but he’s very funny and a great investigator. Draco’s pleased he’s his partner.

An hour passes, and people start arriving. A lot of odd looks get shot Draco’s way, but whether it’s because he’s sat on the floor outside his office or the fact that he’s wearing an ancient suit, he doesn’t know.

Still no sign of Barry.

Draco’s starting to get impatient when he suddenly realizes it’s Barry’s week off. All the blood leaves his abdomen and heads to his feet, then back up to his head, as he remembers what this now means.

One of his and Harry’s policies was that they both had to have keys to each other’s offices, just in case. It came in handy because Harry was always forgetting his keys, and that meant Draco got to be a falsely exasperated hero.

It does not come in handy today. Draco’s desperately annoyed that he has to see Harry again, and that the gods seem to have no regard for his personal grudges. Still, he has to hold his head high, and so he struts up a floor to Harry’s office.

As he stalks through the row of offices, he ignores all pleasantries. He’s not here to be friendly, he’s here to get a key to his office and get on with his life. And if he stands outside Harry’s office for 5 minutes, practicing what he’s going to say, then that’s no one else’s business.

Eventually he shoves open the door, sticks his nose in the air, and storms over to Harry’s desk, ignoring Ron’s greeting.

He tries desperately to ignore Harry too. He’s sat at his desk, dark circles under his eyes and hair deliciously ruffled, and Draco’s heart twists. _Fuck, he’s gorgeous._

Draco stops at his desk, ignoring the way Harry’s looking at him- as though he hung the moon and the stars, and is still the bane of Harry’s existence. “Potter,” he sneers, voice wobbly and a bit high pitched. He hasn’t called Harry “Potter” in years, and it feels… shit.

He holds out a trembling hand. “I want my key.” Harry- Potter- glances at Draco’s hand, then back at his face. He doesn’t make an effort to hand over the key.

“Draco-“ he starts, but Draco shakes his head. “Give me the fucking key.” And Harry- POTTER- does.

Draco’s disappointed- he wanted Harry to make an effort, to fight for him. He stands there for a second, shocked and hurt and angry, and then remembers where he is. His stone cold expression falls back into place, and he turns to leave.

“Draco.” Potter says softly. Draco hears the pain in his voice, hears the pleading tone, but doesn’t stop.

“Don’t.” _Fuck, his voice cracked._ “Goodbye, Potter.”

And he stalks out of the office, out of his home, away from the man who should have always been his.

~

Operation Moving On is steadily picking up. Draco has already flirted with 4 people today, but they were all women and Draco doesn’t do women.

It’s now lunchtime, and Draco’s in the cafeteria. He’s sitting with Justin Finch-Fletchley, and Potter is at the table behind his. He can feel his gaze on the back of his head.

Draco leans forward in his seat and takes one of Justin’s hands in his own. “Justin, you are absolutely gorgeous.” (He isn’t.) “I am so fascinated with the caring of tumbleweeds-” (he isn’t) “so, please, tell me how exactly do they thrive in deserts?” As he launches into a speech about the benefits of dry weather or some shit- Draco has never been so bored in his life, dear lord- Draco stifles a yawn.

Justin is just so _boring_ , and so entirely heterosexual that it turns Draco’s stomach.

He hears a clatter behind him. Startled, he looks around, and immediately makes eye contact with Potter, towering and angry and so, so beautiful. Draco can _feel_ his magic, _feel_ his frustration, and wants to melt into it, wants to fall into bed with him, wants to forget this silly thing, because if Harry wants to marry someone else then so be it, he just needs to fuck Draco right now, _god damnit_ -

And then Ron stands up too, grabs Harry’s shoulder and tugs him away, and the moment is broken.

Dazed, Draco turns back around, only to be met with Justin’s open-mouthed stare, a look of admiration in his eyes, and he promptly gets up and leaves. He _has_ to get over himself.

~

The rest of the day goes by smoothly.

Well, at least until Draco goes to get a cup of coffee.

The coffee station is quite full, and Draco weaves around everyone to try and get his coffee so he can get back to work as soon as possible. He falls into a line consisting of about 8 people, and so starts talking to Winifred McLachlan about her brand knew Kneazles.

The conversation dies shortly, but only because Draco becomes distracted.

There, right in front of his very eyes, is _Potter_. (Draco feels a bit like he’s 16 again, with all this Potter business.) He’s leaning against the wall, cup dwarfed in his hand, smile creasing his eyes, and he’s talking to none other than _Colin fucking Creevey_ , who’s fancied him for YEARS.

Draco’s blood boils. How _dare_ Potter do that, right in front of him? He has never felt more offended in his life, and… he’s stepped out of the line.

Winifred immediately darts into his spot and says “winners keepers, losers weepers!” but Draco’s gone deaf.

There’s blood rushing in his ears, and, before he can stop himself, he bellows:

“HARRY FUCKING POTTER, YOU GIGANTIC FUCKING _PRICK_ , GET OVER HERE RIGHT THIS FUCKING _INSTANT_!!!!!”

The next thing he knows, he’s marching up to Harry, grabbing him by the tie and dragging him out of the coffee station. Wolf whistles follow them out the door, and Draco has never been more angry in his whole entire life.

He drags Harry straight to his office, cursing the whole way there- “you’re such a _fucking dickhead_ , I cannot _believe_ you”, “how fucking _dare you_ , doing that in front of me”, “you're the biggest fucking moron I have ever met in my entire life”- and Harry follows him the whole way there, like a… like a smug bastard.

Draco throws open the door to his office and drags Harry inside. He shoves him up against the wall, and he knows he’s red, and he knows he looks feral, and he knows he looks a mess, and, and, and…

He doesn’t know what to say.

Harry grins down at him, still pushed against the wall, Draco’s hand still clutching his tie like he’s never going to let go, and Draco doesn’t want to let go, never again…

“Fuck you, Potter”. Then Draco’s the one against the wall, and Harry’s the one with his knee between Draco’s legs, and his eyes are dark and his grin is gone and he looks so angry and Draco has never been so turned on in his life, he can feel Harry’s magic, feel his frustration, is _drowning_ in it, and he _loves_ it.

Out of all the times he’s been a diva, this has been the most satisfying ending _by far_.

“Fuck me? No, Draco, fuck you. Fuck you for storming out and leaving me for 2 weeks to wonder what I did wrong, fuck you for leaving me, fuck you for being such an irrational pillock!!!”

Draco screams, “no! You don’t get to say that to me! How dare you ask for someone else’s hand in marriage when you were with me?! I was supposed to be the one for you, and you went and fucked that right in the arse! You went and ruined it, and I bet they’re not even blonde.” His voice cracks, and his head falls, and there’s tears falling down his face.

There’s a deafening silence, then Harry’s hand is coming underneath his chin.

“What the actual fuck are you talking about? I never asked for someone else to marry me. Fuck, Draco, you’re _it_ for me, there’s no one else! There’s never going to be anyone else. Where did you come up with that idea?!”

And Draco’s confused, because he saw the note, he _read_ it, he _held it in his hand_.

“I saw the note, Harry! You were going to write to someone to ask them to marry you! You called them baby, Harry, why would you do that?”

Harry starts laughing then, well and truly laughing, and Draco’s annoyed.

“Is that it, then? Is that why you left? Because you read a note? Fucking hell, Draco, that was meant for you. I want to marry you, you idiot, but you went and left me.”

Draco stops. “What?” He croaks, because he doesn’t understand.

“Draco, _I want to marry you_. There’s no one else in the universe that makes me feel the way you do, you fucking drama queen, fuck! I want to marry you. I was going to propose.”

Draco’s mind is short circuiting. There was no one else… Harry wanted to marry him… what the fuck…

Before he has time to process it any further, he grabs Harry by the back of his neck and bites into his mouth. Their teeth clatter against each other, their tongues twist around each other, and Draco’s crying, and Harry’s crying, and it’s one big mess, and-

Draco pulls away suddenly and looks into Harry’s eyes as he reaches into his trousers. He grabs Harry’s cock as he stares into his soul, and Harry grumbles in his chest, and Draco whispers: “

”Yes. I would say yes, if you asked me to marry you.”

And Harry moans, loud and feral, and lunges into Draco’s mouth. Hoisting him up by his waist, he leaves Draco’s lips and bites down his neck.

“Fucking let’s do it, then, right here, right now. Marry me, Draco. Marry me.”

Draco moans “yes”, and that’s that.

Harry fucks him against the wall slowly, whispering sweet nothings into Draco’s ear as Draco falls apart from the inside out. They come together, Draco moaning like he’s dying and Harry biting his neck, and this is it. This is them. It’s always been them, they’ve always been inevitable, and this is it for the both of them.

They run to the Portkey office and go straight to Las Vegas, and rush to the Little White Chapel, where they're married by an Elvis impersonator.

Draco can’t help but feel as though this is perfect for them.

They’ll tell everyone tomorrow, he thinks, as he’s carried by Harry to the nearest hotel. But for now, they have matters to get up to.

Draco can’t promise he won’t overreact in the future, especially if it turns out like _this_ , but he’ll maybe try to be a little bit more rational.

Maybe.

**Author's Note:**

> all rights go to JK Rowling.


End file.
